Will You Love Me Tomorrow?
by LillyMayFlower
Summary: My take on the series opener - what I wish could have happened instead. When Sam is critically injured by the explosion, Dylan finally realises everything that he can no longer leave unsaid.


**Will You Love Me Tomorrow?**

 **This was written as a birthday-present fic for theverystuffoflife. It's based on a song by Carole King (which is utterly gorgeous if you've never heard it, I would completely recommend it as a partner to this fic) and it's what I wish would have happened in the series opener. It broke my heart, what else can I say? With the growing amount of Dylan and Sam fic at the moment, I thought I'd add another take on it!**

* * *

" _Dylan, are you alright?"_

 _She'd seen it in his eyes, the answer to this question. Of course, she wasn't particularly comfortable in this scenario of total carnage, but she had seen worse (something which she constantly reminded herself of, to get through tonight.) But for someone who'd only ever been a GP and a consultant, this scene couldn't be an easy one. Especially not for Dylan. She knew him too well, knew that he wouldn't cope with all of this. The sights, the sounds, the smells. The impending threat of obliteration by that tanker._

 _And although she could never bring it up, she'd heard things in the ED, about his mental state. She knew about the drinking, now, but she'd heard about his OCD too. It wasn't her place to talk about it, nor her thing to talk about, but she couldn't help thinking of him in these chaotic surroundings._

" _Yeah, yeah. Of course I am," came his reply, although his eyes said more._

* * *

 _Dylan felt a change in the air, in the seconds before the tanker went up. Everything was still, there was a second's silence, then a second's loud panic. And then — boom. The ground shook, and he looked on with horror as flames leapt into the air and the shockwave pulsed down the road._

 _Humans were not hard-wired to run towards danger. Dylan would certainly never have called himself 'brave' or 'heroic'. Those descriptors were reserved for one woman, and one woman only. The only one he had ever loved. But when he knew she was at risk, he found himself charging towards the fire, screaming her name._

 _He saw her, folded on the road and immediately feared the worst. The world seemed to stop for a moment as he fixated on her. He couldn't breathe, his throat was blocked. And then he saw her get up, and he sprinted towards her._

" _Sam? Sam, are you alright?" It was only natural to return her previous question; he had to know if she'd been hurt. She practically fell forwards into his arms, and he worried afresh, but she straightened herself up almost immediately._

" _I'm fine," she confirmed._

" _Are you sure?" he checked. Adrenaline could do funny things to the human body, they both knew._

" _Yes, Grumpy," she said. As she brushed herself down, Dylan could see that familiar half-smile that she always seemed to save for him, as though she was amused by his concern. "Perfectly fine."_

 _But Dylan wasn't convinced. "When you get back to the ED, get yourself checked out, okay? For me, please," he added, before he'd had chance to think it through._

 _Sam raised one eyebrow. "Very well, Dylan, I'll do it_ _ **for you**_. _"_

 _Although she didn't let on, it felt nice that he still cared about her._

* * *

 _She was seconds away from heading back to Holby ED in the back of the ambulance, when her train of thought was once again interrupted by Dylan. His words echoed in her mind, that she should get herself checked out (which she didn't need, she was sure of it) but harder still to shake was the sight of his lost expression in the middle of all the mayhem._

" _Are we ready to go?" Iain called from the front of the ambulance._

 _Sam hesitated, deep in thought. The patient was stable. She could hold off their departure for a few minutes, for this. "Just hold on a sec, Iain."_

 _Luckily, she spotted Dylan as soon as she stepped out of the back of the ambulance. He looked a little less dazed than he had before, but he wasn't himself._

" _Rough night, isn't it?" she said softly, not wishing to assault his senses any more than they already had been._

" _Mmm," he agreed, inclining his head very slightly._

" _I feel a fool for asking, but will you go for coffee with me when it's all over? It might be good to decompress, get it all out of your head." She looked at him hopefully, trying to read him without much success. But eventually, his eyes lightened and his expression shifted._

" _Actually, I think I'd like that very much." Maybe it was all under the guise of looking out for each other, but he'd like to sit down and talk. It had been long enough._

* * *

It had been a hellish night, one that no-one in the ED would forget in a hurry, and there was still work to be done. For the paramedics at least, the night was over, and as Sam stood in the middle of the ED, stood still for the first time in hours, the adrenaline began to slip out of her system and she became aware that something was very wrong. It started with a small pain on the right hand side of her lower back. She breathed deeply; it was probably just muscles protesting after that explosion and being thrown into the side of the ambulance. Her head started to hurt too, and as she blinked dazedly, she recalled her head hitting the glass of the driver's window. The pain in her back was intensifying, radiating outwards with every passing second. Sam winced as she put her hand flat against the painful area: it just got worse.

It took about three seconds for Sam to realise that the bulky fabric of her paramedic shirt was damp with blood.

Trying not to panic, she twisted around and lifted her shirt, trying to get a better look at the problem, but this caused a whole new world of pain. Her breaths sped up and it felt as though the room was spinning around her.

"Sam, you okay?"

Sam managed to hone in on the concerned voice. It was Jan's. "N-no," she stammered, unable to see her manager's face in full clarity. A deep fog was threatening to pull her under, so speaking was difficult, but she had to tell Jan what she had seen of her injury. "Shrapnel, I — explosion — hurts so much." Her knees buckled, her vision faded, and she collapsed.

Her last thoughts before her mind shut down too, were that Dylan had been right to question her judgement, and then, that he wasn't here, when she thought she'd rather like him to be.

* * *

Dylan walked back into the ED, stunned by horrors that he had seen. Compared to outside, it was warm in here; he pulled down the zip on his jumpsuit and took his arms out of the sleeves so his top half was only covered by his navy cotton t-shirt. He tied the sleeves neatly together around his middle, and tried not to feel self-conscious about suddenly being so on-show. But now was not the time for petty worries: with all the patients brought in tonight, resus needed every pair of hands it could get.

He made a beeline for the double doors which concealed it all —

"Dylan, hold on," Duffy said quietly. She only knew of Dylan and Sam what little she'd heard from the hospital grapevine. She wasn't the right person to do this, but someone had to. She took a deep breath, and felt a hand on her shoulder. Charlie was there, as he had been all the way through this horrible, horrible night.

"I'll do this," Charlie muttered, and Duffy was so grateful for it.

"I'm needed in there, I've got a job to do," Dylan protested.

Charlie sighed. This wasn't going to be easy, and there was no telling how Dylan would take the news. "I think it's best if you don't. It's — Sam's in there."

Dylan rolled his eyes, pushing away the thought that Charlie meant Sam was hurt. She couldn't be. She was an invincible force of nature. "Well I should expect so, she's one of the paramedics from the scene. No doubt she's needed as much as I am. I _can_ work in the same room as her without starting a domestic," he said sarcastically, thinking fondly of the almost-kind words that had passed between them earlier, "and I resent the gossipy accusation that —"

"Dylan!" Charlie exclaimed. "Will you stop for a minute?!" He cut across the consultant as firmly as he could bring himself to, given the shaky circumstances. "She's not in there as a paramedic. She's a patient."

"Why? What happened? She was alright, I saw her, _I spoke to her,_ she was - she was fine."

Dylan zoned out, momentarily trapped in his head. Years melted away in a heartbeat and his sole concern was his ex-wife. He swallowed hard, wanting to stay composed.

"What happened?" he enquired, hoping to sound matter-of-fact and not worried.

"Penetrating shrapnel from the blast," Charlie explained sympathetically. He knew the cruel irony of this turn of events.

His mouth dry, Dylan could not wrap his head around the injustice of it all. He tried not to be human, to be a doctor and deal only in the facts. But this was _Sam_ they were talking about. "How bad is it, Charlie?"

The nurse closed his eyes for a second. "Bad," he said, forcing himself to look Dylan in the eyes. "She's lost a lot of blood already. Connie and Elle are doing everything they can, but she needs to be in theatre."

Dylan stepped back, unsteady on his feet. "I need to not be here." He was shutting down, and he couldn't think of a worse place to be than somewhere where there would be gossip, overbearing sympathy and endless questions. Everything was loud, ringing in his ears. His mind's eye was full of Sam, and the way they'd talked tonight like something was changing between them. He was concentrating on everything and nothing, until Charlie's hand reached out and rested on his shoulder. He looked up.

"I don't think anyone could blame you for that. Forget the incident protocol, go and get yourself a coffee and some peace and quiet. Leave your phone on; someone will let you know as soon as we know anything more."

Dylan nodded. He was suddenly so tired. The tiredness caught up with him all at once, now that the constant movement and adrenaline of the crash site was finished with. "Right," he said. "I'll do that. Um, yes."

* * *

The staffroom was empty as Dylan made a cup of coffee. It should have been peaceful, but how could it be, when it was full of _her_? There had been cross words and arguments in here, but small kindnesses too. A kettle refilled and reboiled without a word. Doors held open, good mornings, good nights and merry christmases exchanged. And the time he'd thought they really would be able to make another go of it, when she proved she didn't hate him by dragging Keith Parr off him. They should have tried harder. He should have been different.

They both could have done things differently.

He couldn't stand being in here a secondlonger, when he knew she was in resus and there was nothing he could do.

* * *

"How did he take it?" Duffy asked.

"Not so well."

"But I thought he and Sam were finished? I don't think I've ever seen them _speak._ "

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "They're a strange one," he explained. "None of us have ever worked them out, and at one point they were both _doctors_ here, still trying to work around each other as distantly as possible. They'll both argue until they're blue in the face, that they can't stand the sight of each other, and then something will happen that proves them wrong. In a strange way, I think they still need each other."

"Either way, I wouldn't like to be in his shoes, tonight," mused Duffy. "Sam went downhill so quickly; I don't know what's going to happen to her." Her face fell; it was never nice to have one of your own as a patient in the department, especially when they were in such a critical condition.

Charlie pulled his wife into a brief hug. They both needed the respite and recharge of knowing they were not alone, even if the night wasn't over yet. "She will get the very best care. She's so stubborn, she won't go down without a fight."

* * *

Dylan paced up and down the peace garden. It was cold, even with his startlingly green jumpsuit pulled back up over his arms and zipped all the way up. The coffee was cooling too quickly; he put the mug down on a bench and promptly forgot about it.

A text came through on his phone, from Connie.

 _Sam's gone up to theatre. Stable for now._

He wondered if he should be relieved. She was stable, temporarily, but there was no saying what would happen in theatre. He sat down on the bench beside the neglected mug of coffee, with his head in his hands. His throat hurt so much that if he started crying he might never stop.

It was instinct, more than anything else, that made him call Zoe. There were three or four rings; maybe she wouldn't answer.

"Dylan?" Zoe said groggily.

He sighed in relief to hear her familiar voice. "Zoe," he breathed. "You've no idea how much I needed to hear your voice, tonight."

Zoe, who had been about to take issue with the timing of Dylan's call, stopped in her tracks. "What's happened?" she asked warily. It might have been the middle of the night, and she might have needed the sleep of the dead after an overrunning shift, but she was acutely aware that all was not well with her best friend. There was silence on the line, but she patiently waited for Dylan to continue.

"It's Sam," Dylan said slowly. "There's been an - an accident - and —" He stopped, unable to explain further through the lump in his throat.

"Oh, God, Dylan, I'm so sorry," Zoe said, wishing she wasn't so far away. "Is she - no - what happened?"

"RTC," he replied thickly, "with one of our ambulances. Massive pile up. She and I went out there together, to try and clear things up."

"And that was… okay?" Zoe asked incredulously, hardly able to believe that Dylan and Sam had been able to say a civil word to each other.

Dylan's shoulders sagged, thinking of the caustic words he had cast her way on the way to the crash site. "Yes, eventually," he admitted sadly. "It was like old times. Really old times. And — I don't know, someone must have told her something, because she was —" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She looked out for me, she _knew_ I hated it. It was the worst I've ever seen, so many cars, so many people. Tanker full of butane went up; I was far enough out, but Sam got thrown down the road. And of course she insisted that she was fine — I should have checked her over myself, I would have noticed something."

" _Please,_ tell me what happened to her." Zoe was close to tears now: a combination of fearing the worst; worrying about Sam, whom she had ended up liking very much; and hearing Dylan talk about it all so brokenly. She sat up in bed and drew her knees up to her chest.

"She made it back to the ED. Lucky, really. She had a - a shrapnel wound. Massive internal bleeding."

"Oh, God, no." Zoe tucked her head down, squeezing her eyes tightly closed against the tiny tears that threatened to become much bigger ones.

"How many times did she go out to Afghanistan, Zoe, and she's near killed by shrapnel _in Holby_!? It's not fair," he said bitterly.

"I wish I could do something to help, Dylan. I wish I could be there with you." She didn't know what to say.

But Dylan was barely listening. His mind was flitting and moving constantly around his fear that tonight would have a tragic end. He thought of their wedding day, the closeness they had once had, and everything that they had thrown away. "I - I - I don't think I can lose her," he stammered, his voice tight with held-in regrets.

Finally, Zoe knew what to say. "Then for heaven's sake, go and be with her! And —" Zoe's voice broke, and she took a shaky breath. "And when she comes round, you make sure that you tell her. You've seen how quickly things can change, so if all of this has shown you that you feel something, even after all this time, then don't you dare keep it to yourself! You make sure she knows how you feel."

Dylan was quiet for a while. "I know I always said talk like that was worthless _Loose Women_ material. But it's what I needed to hear, I think. Thank you," he said genuinely, tears slipping down his cheeks.

"You're welcome. I hope - I hope everything turns out right. I really do. I don't care what time it is, but when she gets out of theatre, let me know. And if —" She could barely choke the words out. "I hate to say this; you know I'm only wishing you the best. But if it all goes wrong, then… me and Nick, we'll be there, okay?"

"I appreciate that," replied Dylan, his voice empty. His chest felt tight with every breath. "I'll keep you updated."

"Thank you, Dylan. Good luck."

* * *

Back in the ED, every pair of eyes was on him. For one terrifying moment, Dylan thought that he was too late, and she was gone already. Connie approached him with a face that was trying not to give anything away. She was trying to be this well-versed Clinical Lead, the image of perfection, but he could see her crumbling as she got closer to him. Her face was drawn and tired, her eyes nowhere near their usual steely expression. When they were only feet apart, she clumsily reached on hand out to him, perhaps intending to hold his arm for a second. But either she thought better of it, or changed her mind. Her fingertips brushed his jumpsuit, and she flinched.

"You're freezing," she observed, her eyebrows furrowing further.

Dylan shrugged. "I hadn't noticed," he replied honestly. "Distracted."

"Of course, of course." Connie looked away and then back at him. "I'm really sorry that this happened," she added, careful and genuine.

"So am I. I wish it hadn't." He withheld that he wished it was him up there on the operating table and not Sam. When other people described their wives as their 'better half' he was sure they didn't mean it as much as he had. "Which theatre is she in?"

"Dylan, please don't —"

"I don't want to go up there and be a nuisance!" he said loudly. "I'm not going up there to wade in and pretend I know best!" Everyone was listening, but he'd passed the point of caring. His voice faded as the wave of emotion crested and broke. "I just… I need to be there, when she comes out."

Connie bowed her head, regretting her assumption. "Theatre three. She might be a while, though."

"I don't care," Dylan shot back, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."

"I know," Connie said gently, thinking of when Grace was in theatre and she would have done well to adopt the same attitude.

* * *

The ED was always loud and bustling. There was always something happening, people moving, chaos unfolding. But this corridor outside theatre was silent. At irregular intervals, nurses in surgical scrubs would emerge, carrying papers and talking in hushed tones. None of them stopped to speak to Dylan, because none of them had come from theatre three.

The tension was unbearable. He could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall as he paced up and down. The time was completely inconsequential to him; if he checks, he'd realise how long this had all been going on. His adrenaline would run out. He was relying on that adrenaline to push out the words he needed to say. Whether she was conscious or not, he had to tell her. He finally had to say it out loud: he loved Samantha Nicholls.

As time marched on, Dylan sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands. This was the worst he'd ever felt. There had been rocky patches, and horrific patches; their relationship had been turbulent until it crumbled. But nothing compared to this. Why had it taken her life hanging in the balance for him to realise what he stood to lose? He didn't know how he wouldcope, if he lost her forever.

* * *

Their paths had crossed first when she was an F1 in need of a mentor. The large teaching hospital in York, where Dylan was a registrar, took junior doctors every year, but that particular year there had been an administrative error. There were too many F1s and not enough mentors to supervise them. Dylan had so far managed to duck out of this responsibility, but that year he had been badgered into it.

" _Dylan, you're the last one available in A &E," the ageing Clinical Lead said._

" _Then put her in another ward," Dylan replied through gritted teeth._

 _The Clinical Lead put on a smile that seemed strained. "Not an option. She needs the trauma experience — soon as she's finished as an F2 she's straight out with the RAMC."_

" _Move one of the others then." His stubbornness would not give that easily. He did not want nor need a student under his care. And what student would ever want a mentor like him, anyway?_

" _Once a placement's been promised, we can't revoke it. You know this." He looked at his watch, ready to pull his trump card. "I've had word from the university; she's one to watch. Absolutely top of her class. High-flier in exams and research, star of clinical practice."_

 _Dylan's expression altered. "Is she now?" he asked with great interest, eyes twinkling._

" _Yes, we're to expect big things from Samantha Nicholls, I think."_

She had proved herself at once, to live up to every expectation. She really was spectacular; it was difficult to be her mentor because she proved her ability at nearly everything, and constantly needed to be pushed further. It was also difficult to be her mentor because she wasn't just professionally attractive. In the end it was impossible to ignore the building chemistry between them, and their dysfunctional mentor/F1 relationship morphed into a secret but nonetheless undeniable love story.

" _Are you busy?" she asked, hanging back at his office door where usually she would have come straight in._

" _Of course I am, I'm always busy," he replied thoughtlessly. But then he looked at her face, and saw deep hurt in her eyes. "I'm never too busy for you, Samantha, don't be daft. What's the matter?"_

 _She came in hesitantly and perched on the edge of his desk, not looking up at him. "I went out with the paramedics; I thought I could handle it."_

 _Dylan winced, wondering what she'd seen. There had been some brutal cases come into the ED during her rotation, but it was different, harder somehow, to see it first hand before it even reached a hospital._

" _Family of four. Mum, dad, nine-year-old daughter and eighteen-month-old son. Their car was hit by a lorry, driver fell asleep." Her face fell further, eyebrows furrowed and hands knotted in front of her._

" _What happened?" Dylan asked, although he already suspected what had upset Sam so much. "All gone?"_

" _No!" Sam exclaimed. "Worse. The daughter survived, with life-changing injuries. Her whole family is gone, I couldn't even save her_ _ **mother**_ _, and the lorry driver didn't have a scratch on him."_

 _He sighed. "I know it's awful, but it happens."_

" _Don't tell me that it_ _ **happens**_ _, when that little girl might never walk again and she hasn't even got a mother to get her through it!" Sam exploded, standing up and turning away from Dylan entirely._

 _Dylan got up too, and stood just behind her with one hand on her shoulder. He closed his fingers softly on her scrubs, pulling her gently back towards him._

" _As if the army would want me, if I can't hold it together after a single trip out with the civilian paramedics! Which MERT team would choose me?" She turned back to Dylan with tears in her eyes. She couldn't meet his gaze._

 _Dylan was stunned. He'd never seen her cry. A tear spilled down her cheek and he caught it with his right thumb. "One which needs to know their doctor cares about the job they're setting out to do."_

 _She scoffed in disgust. "Yeah, because a teary doctor is exactly what they're looking for."_

" _ **Sam**_ _," he said, finally catching her attention because he never called her anything less than her full name. "How long have I known you?"_

" _Long enough," she replied, sniffing._

" _Exactly. And I've never seen you cry, not even once. This is not everyday Samantha Nicholls. You're tired and you've seen a hell of a lot today. I dare say anyone in your position would be so upset, never mind an F1 with next to no experience. You're an excellent doctor, and you'll end up a credit to the RAMC, but you're still learning. This is still new. I would think you're allowed to display a little emotion every once in a while."_

 _Sam gave a weak smile. "Thanks." Her smile faded quickly._

" _It won't always be this way."_

 _She let out a long breath, nodding, and pulled the hair-tie from the end of her long, blonde plait. She ran her hands through her hair a couple of times before pushing it all up into a bun. "I'll be alright," she said, having decided that she would be._

" _I'm glad."_

 _She took a step away from him, but Dylan awkwardly reached for her hand to stop her._

" _Wait," he said, his thumb stroking circles on the back of her hand. "You did well today."_

" _Really?" She raised one eyebrow._

" _Really." He kissed the top of her head, one careful hand on each of her cheeks. He could feel her face shift as she smiled under his palms._

Their relationship didn't become common knowledge until long after Sam had moved on from the A&E department. Everyone said it wouldn't last, but they hadn't cared. They didn't need other people's approval; they needed each other.

That 'need' had been so clear every time she came back from deployment and it was like they'd never been apart. They always seemed to pick up where they'd left off.

Until they couldn't, anymore.

* * *

After what seemed like an age, a surgeon emerged from theatre three. Dylan leapt up from the floor, all tiredness forgotten. The surgeon was one he'd never come across before.

"I take it you're here for Sam Nicholls?"

"Yes, is she stable?"

"Are you her next of kin?" The surgeon's eyes narrowed.

Dylan's heart sank. "I - I don't know." He swallowed. "I… I was. I don't know." He shook his head despairingly.

"Are you Dr Dylan Keogh?"

As far as Dylan's heart had just sunk, it now flew, and more on top of that. "Yes, I am," he said hurriedly, running a hand through his hair. "Please, I need to know," he begged.

"She'll be transferred to ICU now, and she'll be closely monitored until she comes round," the surgeon began. "You knew about the shrapnel injury?"

"Yes." Dylan's stomach was doing somersaults. He didn't know how calm and objective he could be, hearing exactly why Sam had ended up in Intensive Care.

"She lost a lot of blood, down in the ED and up here, but she's stable in that respect. There was a complication though; a head injury that no-one spotted."

Reeling, Dylan stumbled back until he hit the wall behind him. He suddenly remembered with clarity, what had happened in the explosion. He'd seen Sam be thrown forwards by the blast. In his mind, he'd set it that she'd been pushed down the road, flat on her front. But that wasn't what happened. As the tanker went up, his eyes had never left her; she'd been launched forwards and her head had slammed into the driver's window of the ambulance.

Why hadn't this seemed important at the time? Why hadn't he stopped her, sat her down and checked her properly? To hell with the fact she might not have wanted him to do so, he _should have done better._

"Will she be alright?" he pleaded.

"You know as well as I do, head injuries can be unpredictable. She's not out of the woods just yet."

* * *

Dylan - _She's out of theatre. Kept a head injury to herself which hasn't helped. She's not out of the woods yet; they're keeping her under for a while._

Zoe - _ICU?_

Dylan - _For now. I'll let you know if anything changes._

* * *

Dylan hesitated at the door of Sam's room. He was frozen to the spot; despite everything that he wanted to say, and everything that he felt, he was half-afraid that he would not be welcome. ICU was as quiet as the corridor outside theatre. Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he turned around.

"Have you been up here before?" The nurse was softly spoken and patiently waited for Dylan to respond.

"Not in this capacity," he replied.

The nurse nodded, not overbearingly sympathetically. "Do you know the sort of thing you need to look out for, the red flags?" She was not about to patronise an ED doctor.

"Yes." It wasn't the 'red flags' he was concerned about. His lips twitched as he considered what to say. "Will she hear me?" He half-knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from someone who dealt in this from day-to-day.

The nurse gave him a sad sort of smile. "It's impossible to tell. Plenty of patients say they heard every word while they were under, but about the same number say they didn't hear a thing. Others hear bits and pieces." She saw Dylan's conflicted expression, one that she saw so often in the relatives of her patients. "If you want my advice, it's this. If _you_ want to be with her, and if you've something to say, then be with her, and say it. Worst case scenario, you'll have to say it a second time."

"Thank you," Dylan said quietly.

"You know where I am, if you need anything at all."

The nurse backed away, leaving Dylan alone with his thoughts once more. He opened the door and closed it silently behind him: a remnant of times when Sam would tell him off for slamming doors. It was all kinds of wrong, walking lightly in his heavy boots as though stepping on hot coals, trying not to disturb her sleeping form. He stood at the side of the bed, looking down at her. He was taken by how peaceful she seemed, despite the trauma that had come before. Tentatively, he reached out and moved a lock of her hair which had fallen across her face. It felt strangely intimate to do so, when they had barely spoken until earlier this evening. He wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and wished he could do the same for her hands, both of which bore the remains of her discovering her injury.

Dylan took up the seat beside the bed and took a long, slow breath in an attempt to slow his heartbeat a little.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Samantha, but I am here, and I don't plan on going anywhere. You scared me, tonight," he admitted. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, but the image of her was tattooed into his mind. And who was he trying to kid? He _wanted_ to look at her; since the very first time he'd laid eyes on her, he'd rarely wanted to look at anything else. She was something special, and knowing that her life hung in the balance was grotesquely unpleasant. "I know I've never done this… this _talking about feelings_ thing… even when I really ought to have done. And I know that maybe you can't hear me, in which case this is just filling space before you wake up, the ramblings of a sleep-deprived and very worried ex-husband. I may well have to say all this again when you come round. But —" He stopped, terrified to say this part aloud. "I still love you."

He reached out and took her right hand in his left. There was a cannula in the back of her hand (he was intricately careful not to disturb anything) but he still managed to interlink his fingers with hers. They hadn't been this close in years, but now his declaration of love was out there, it seemed wrong to be anything but close. He dispelled the thought that maybe she hadn't heard, maybe she couldn't hear anything. Right now, it was keeping his worries at bay to think that she had heard and was on board with all of this.

He stroked the edge of her index finger with his thumb. "I know there's nothing to be done about the past. It's finished. But I need you to know that I regret how I dealt with things. And… I especially regret coming here and being so closed when you arrived too. I shouldn't have pretended that there was nothing between us, I shouldn't have made you feel like you didn't matter. You matter to me, more than anyone else ever has, or ever will do."

Dylan wasn't surprised to feel a lump in his throat. If any situation was going to force emotions out of him, of course it would be one involving Samantha Nicholls.

"From now on, I promise to be less… less me. Less difficult, less obstructive, less bloody-minded. You always deserved better, still do."

He yawned, and blinked rapidly to try and ignore the fact that his eyes were watering. Apologising quietly to the unconscious Sam, he couldn't tell anymore whether her being so vulnerable was upsetting him, or whether he was slowly being overcome by exhaustion.

"I'm sorry that everything went wrong between us." He sighed. If she couldn't hear him, this was just a waste of time, and if she _could_ hear him, then everything was changing.

"I know I've always insisted I'm happy to do my own thing. But I think — no, I know — I would rather share it all with you again."

Dylan stood up. He looked down at Sam and bit his lip. He'd never been more sure of anything: absence made the heart grow fonder, or something. He still had a loose touch on her hand, and he wished so much that she'd squeeze his hand, open her eyes and tell him to stop being so sentimental. But she was still lifeless except for the slow rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

Right now, it was as though anything could happen. Would things be as simple in the morning? He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then returned to sitting in the chair and holding her hand as if nothing momentous had just happened.

* * *

At nine o'clock in the morning, Connie walked up to Sam's ward. No-one had seen Dylan all night: by the way he'd reacted to the news of Sam being admitted, she guessed that he had stayed up here all night with her. She carried a takeaway cup of coffee; the only meaningful gesture that she could conjure up at a moment's notice on no sleep whatsoever. Dylan's reputation preceded him in this place, so it was likely that the staff in ICU would give him a wide berth. But Connie had a suspicion that after last night, his harsh exterior might be a little less impermeable, and this morning, he might need a bit of looking after.

She reached ICU promptly, and after asking the Ward Sister where Sam could be found, Connie found herself standing outside the little side room which contained a still-unconscious Sam. She shook her head sadly, wishing things could be different. Her hand was on the door handle, pressing it down, when her eyes fell on Dylan.

Still dressed as he had been at the crash site, the consultant was now slouched in the chair beside the bed, sound asleep. The deep lines of worry which has been etched into his face since the news broke about Sam, had lessened slightly in their intensity. He seemed a little more at peace now. His hand held Sam's tenderly. Even though he was asleep, he seemed somehow to project an aura of protection around his ex-wife.

Connie silently removed her hand from the door handle, cautious that lifting it back up should make no noise. There was no reason to disturb them now.

* * *

Sam opened her eyes, and the softly lit room swam into focus around her. She was bone-tired, which seemed unfair after the length of time she presumed she had been unconscious. Her back hurt, but that was to be expected. Her head was sore too. But the overwhelming sensation was the tiredness; she could barely lift her head off the pillow. She wondered what had happened to her between collapsing in the ED and waking up here, how much blood she must have lost, and how many units of O+ she must have been given. Those were her days of blood donation over and done with.

She flexed the fingers on each hand and lifted her right hand up to inspect her cannula. As she did so, her hand brushed against someone else's. Sam's blood slowed down in her veins. She knew whose hand it was, without going to the great effort of moving to look. While she was under, she'd heard every single word, and felt every bit of emotion attached to those words. It was a wonderful relief to know that it had not all been a dream.

Nonetheless, Sam pushed herself to sit up a little more, and looked over to see Dylan sleeping in the chair beside the bed. Her head pounded in response so she lay back down quickly, but she closed her eyes and smiled. She opened her eyes again, and it was all still real. She was alive, she was going to be okay, and she was not alone.

In the half-light (what time was it? She didn't know) Sam reached for Dylan's hand and held it, not wanting to let go.

Dylan sighed in his sleep and stretched as he began to wake up. He was aware at once of his hand being held, and his heart leapt into his mouth.

"Sam," he said, relief pouring out of the single syllable. "You're… okay?"

"Yeah," she replied, smiling.

"How do you feel? Does anything hurt?"

"Slow down, Grumpy, we've got all day!"

"Sorry," Dylan said, dropping his gaze in embarrassment. "How are you feeling?"

"Bruised," Sam said honestly. "My back hurts, and my head, but I suppose those are what you expected."

"None of us knew about your head. Information might have come in handy." His voice was void of his normal, acerbic tone. Instead he sounded unsure, shaky and nervous.

"I didn't have a lot of time. I should have… You knew, you told me I had to get myself checked out, and I was just putting everything else first."

"Some things never change, then."

Neither of them had even mentioned their held hands. They were dealing with everything else first, not dealing with the elephant in the room because they were just terrible at confronting how they felt. Dylan might have been able to be truthful while Sam was unconscious, but when they were both awake it was another story entirely.

"Dylan, how did I end up here? Where am I, and what time is it?"

He raised his eyebrows and nearly smiled back at her. " _Now_ who's got all the questions?" he asked, gently mocking her. But his tone changed as he started to tell her what had happened; it had upset him at the time and it didn't make him feel good now. "You're in ICU, although I imagine that you won't stay here much longer, now you're awake and talking. It's — good grief — it's nearly half past twelve, on Sunday afternoon. About one o'clock this morning, you… collapsed in the ED. You were in resus for, no, I don't know how long. I got back just after half past one, and as soon as I knew, I couldn't stay in the ED. You went up to theatre at some point; you were in there for long enough. You got up here about five o'clock, and —"

"— And you were here with me, the whole time?" Sam interrupted, sounding a little disbelieving and a little pleased. Her grip on his hand had become more protective as she'd heard him struggle to recount what had happened overnight.

"Um, yes. I didn't want you to be on your own. You didn't deserve that." He shrugged.

Finally, Sam looked down at their hands. "Dylan," she began, nodding down at them.

He recoiled, and let go of her hand.

"No, no, that's not what I meant! I - I want you to. I want to hold your hand, I want to be close to you again." She paused. "I heard all the things that you said," she said, not knowing where to start to comment on it.

Dylan jumped in, seizing his chance and his sudden onset of courage. "I meant it, Samantha, every word."

Sam could not deny the warm feeling that came with hearing him use her full name. It made her feel loved.

"Last night taught me that I couldn't bear to lose you. I need you, and I need to know if you feel the same way."

Sam's free hand came up to cover her mouth. They had never been good at talking about how they felt; why did it take a near-disaster for them to realise that they couldn't be without each other? "Of course I feel the same way. I love you. I don't know if I stopped loving you, really. We just… we need to try harder. But I want to, I want to make this work. I love you."

"I love you too." Dylan let out a breath and with that release of air there was a lifting of weight from his shoulders, that had been there for more than seven years.

"You said... you said that you'd be less you. As if that would fix what was broken."

Dylan looked down at the floor, but Sam pulling on his hand forced him to look back up at her.

"I don't want you to be less you. I fell in love with you because I like the way you are. I don't want you to pretend to be someone that you're not. I still love you, for _you,_ not anyone else."

Dylan's eyes were filled with warmth and hope.

"I can't sit up by myself," Sam said, "everything is too sore. But I want to hug you. I want you to hug me. Please."

Dylan didn't have to be asked twice. He was careful with her, because he didn't want to hurt her, but he hugged her all the same. A few tears of relief trickled from his eyes but he didn't care. She rested her head in the crook of his neck; he could feel her breaths on his skin. He had missed her, he had missed this, he had missed _them_.

When he released the hug, it took him by surprise that Sam kissed his cheek. He smiled.

"I suppose that suggestion of going for coffee is out of the question now, then?" he said sarcastically.

"Oh, naturally," Sam replied, giving as good as she got, like always.


End file.
